


Tidings of a World Made Free

by Thatkindoffangirl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Kink Meme, Violence, Zombie AU, Zombies, mostly The Walking Dead AU, the holy trinity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatkindoffangirl/pseuds/Thatkindoffangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Will is shot in episode 13, he goes into a coma. When he wakes up, the world is not quite as it was before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tidings of a World Made Free

There are screams in his dreams, but screams don't wake him up. There are always screams in his dreams. People yelling, corpses laughing; a woman’s voice whispering, _Please, Will. Wake up, Will. We need to evacuate._

Wolf Trap is burning. The fire skids on the snow that covers the trees, melts the white under its heat; the sky blazes red against the smoke that divides it from earth. He has never seen hell, but this is how he dreams it to be.

A drop of sweat runs down his scorched face; the rifle slips against his shoulder. He hoists it straight again, just as the edge of the forest shakes open and the wendigo comes crawling out of its burning womb.

The beast's body is slender, wrapped in smoke and darkness, and its form casts shadows that dance against the fire itself; sparks slither on its skin, worm into the black furrows of its muscles then joins back into the flames.

The gunsight aligns to the dark pit between the beast’s eyes and Will fires.

The roar that pierces the air is that of a wounded animal, not a dead one. Its fury echoes above the sizzle of burning wood, shakes the soil under Will. He trips and the rifle falls. He stretches his hands to catch it, but it slips through his fingers and slides down the roof. It hits the ground with a clang. Cursing, he dives after it.

Sand and smoke wash across his face. The wind blows with the rage of the wendigo’s voice. Will's legs hit the soil, just as the wendigo is back on its feet. He aims for the head again. A large, red trail trickles down the cheek, like tears oozing from the smooth surface of a statue; in place of its left eye there is but a puddle of revolting darkness.

The wendigo pounces forward, Will pulls the trigger.

There is the dull click of broken gears, and a roar that is more like a sneer. Tossing the rifle aside, he reaches for his knife; snake-like claws dig into his shoulders, tear his flesh apart as the blade slides out of his boots; blood soaks his shirt, and the back of his head bangs against the ground.

The world is upside down. The wendigo blurs into a man. He shakes and calls him as smoke and dust whirl on his figure toward the now blinding sun. They are coming, Will,he says. His cry is like the song of a siren luring him to the underworld.

Will squints his eyes: human contours float against those of the wendigo, but its breath smells like rotten flesh; blood and worms inside his nostrils. It’s the only truth he needs.

His fingers scrabble the ground blindly for the knife that must have fallen close; the beast-man howls.

Claws sear Will's flesh as they slide out of him; blood gushes hot over his face and glasses. He shakes, blind with pain. Red trickles runs along his torso, mixing with frozen sweat. It sticks to his clothes and hair to his skin. His nails break on the ground under the frantic rhythm of his search, but find only sand and rocks. He’s too weak to run or give up.

Rage shakes the ground. The wendigo rises to its feet again, bared teeth glowing with the red of the burning sky; blood runs down its eye like demon's tears.

Red beads float in the air as the beast runs and throws itself into the flames again. They eat its skin until they are one and the same. And then they both are nothing.

Wind erupts from the ground itself, gusting the lands, swallowing smoke and ashes as the sky turns blue; the sun shines through Will's blood-spotted glasses, making red shards float over his skin like light bouncing off a pool. He closes his eyes. Fresh air sweeps through his lungs with each breath, caressing the curls in his hair.

The only remnants of the fight is the scraping of his fingers that still rings inside his ears, louder and louder with each passing second.He wants to stop, but his arms are numb. Moving them is like pulling a stone out of the ocean, and his legs feel just as heavy. There is the low wail of weakened animals in the distance.

The dogs must be hungry.

The thought is hollow and foreign, yet it gives him the strength to roll to his side. Branches rise from below him as he turns and wrap around his legs to suck him away from the cliff that is now prying open before him. He digs his fingers in the ground, kicks them away. All of his muscles ache as he hails himself on the edge. He hears the sea rattling below like snakes, but the pit is pitch-black and there is no way to see where his fall will end. The dogs are crying again for him — and so he dives forward. The branches plunge after him, catch his ankle, try to hoist him up; his foot slips from their grasp and slides free. For a moment, air soars him upward and his body feels light and warm; then, his back slams against the water and the world around him fades.

The early-autumn sun shines on the hospital room, and yet Will is shaking. His back throbs; his left shoulder aches; a sharp pain sears his chest with red circles shining in place of the electrodes ripped away by his fall; the IV needle on his forearm is skewed outside his vein. He tears it off.

The linoleum sucks on his sweat. He is covered by nothing but a pair of boxers and a grey blanket coiling around his leg like a snake. Rattling waves of his dream echo inside his skull, sharp despite the numbness in his mind.

He has to hold to the side of the bed to haul himself up. The health monitors are pitch black, the IV bags empty; his sweating outline is edged on the stained sheets. No one but him is there. No one but him has been for a long time. He presses his fist on his forehead. How long was he asleep?

There is a sound behind him, like nails in a tin that someone is shaking. Someone is tugging on the door, making the handle clatter against the pole that is wedged inside it. His mouth falls open. Did someone barricade the room? Did he?

He tries to reach the door still holding to the bed, but his fingers merely brush against the pole. His legs are weak. The room wobbles and blurs as he takes the first step. It’s a short way but it's like walking on a boat over a stormy ocean. It makes him sick. He has to rest against the door before his hands are steady enough to grab the pole. It doesn’t budge. I’m trying, he says. No voice comes out.

He pushes on it with all his strength; finally, the pole shrieks, and slides. It makes his hair bristle. Another shriek, then a bang: the whole door shakes; he stumbles backward, falls on the floor. New noises rise from the other side —nails scraping against the wooden door, the growl of rabid animals that echoes through the hallway as if born from the hospital itself; each pull makes the hinges creak. Charred fingers slide under the door, scrabbling around with their broken nails. He sighs.

Hallucinations are not easy to ignore, but he manages. He finds his clothes on a chair on the other side of the bed. They are not the clothes he wore when he was shot, and yet they are definitely his, neatly piled as if someone got them ready for him to wake up to. A strange thing, for a hospital. He smiles. Alana was known to go and fetch stuff for people she was worried about — remembering normal times, she said, is always important; more so, in a hospital. Something white sticks from the breast pocket of his jacket, which he finds sitting at the bottom of the pile. He takes it out. It’s a small piece of paper, with regular, elegant writing that is not his nor Alana’s. His blood boils at its sight. The message is simple, four words that make perfect sense, and yet none:

_go through the window._

Some kind of sick joke. He crushes the paper in his fist. The wind blows against the white stripes that hang down the window as a curtain; a tall building sits in front of his room, too far, out of reach. They are on the second floor, maybe even the third. There is still the banging at the door, regular, tireless. The pole, wedged halfway inside the handle, clatters with each tug; the hinges rattle along. Small cracks are forming along the edges, and splinters rise from them like ice shards.

He must be crazy.

It’s a thought he has entertained a lot in the past, but he has never been so certain as now, standing on the window sill. A lower building sits in front of him, one he couldn’t see from his bed. The small hallway between is completely empty. It must be the back of the hospital.  
He counts the windows on the other building. Third floor. The scratching of pens rings in his mind, the sound of his students taking notes about broken spines, crushed bones and brain pieces scattered all over the crimescene. He shakes his head, driving the memory away. People survive these kind of falls all the time, when they are lucky. He zips up his jacket, holds his breath.

The edge of the building cuts his breath short as it hits his chest. It is only by luck that he grabs the ledge. His feet scrabble on the plaster that comes crumbling under his soles. The building is completely smooth. The muscles in his hands burn with effort. A flag staff is sticking from the wall, some feet on his right. He swings sideways. Concrete crumbles under his fingers and his hold slips. He dangles his hand, trying to get momentum to grab the rim again, launches himself upward. There is an intense pain in his arm. It makes his eyes burn white and his fingers snap open.

The fall is short, the landing gentle. Suddenly, it feels like he is sleeping again. All around him dunes of white sand over which the sun shines bright and reflects in his eyes. The soil is soft as cotton. He opens his shirt, looks at his shoulder: the gunshot has opened again, and a red blot of blood sweats over the bandage. He curses.

It’s the back of a truck. Under him, its cargo is stacked like matches wrapped in bedsheets and tossed in a too small box. Black strands are tangled to his hand. Hair. Human hair. He grabs a sheet, tears it open. There is a face there, stiff, swollen. Dead. A pile of corpses.

Bones break as he runs; blackened limbs rise under his steps — dead hands, feet, faces bleeding out towards him. He holds himself to the side of the truck, retching. A dribble of spit hangs from his mouth. His stomach is empty.

And then he hears it again: animals wailing; nails scraping; the regular, rattling sound of metal clattering over metal.

He raises his head. A double door — chains tying it close, a wooden bar slotted between its handles — blows up as someone pushes on the other side. On it, four words that seems to dance as the metal shakes with each bang.

He doesn’t understand their meaning, but still they make its hair bristle.

Black paint drips dry down each letter:

 _**DON’T OPEN** _   
_**DEAD INSIDE** _

**Author's Note:**

> Written for: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2246.html?thread=3975878  
> It's going to be a quite-long, quite-bloody journey.  
> Bear with me.


End file.
